


View

by pluto



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-30
Updated: 2010-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluto/pseuds/pluto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Checking out the view with Martha, Jack sees more than he expects to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	View

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place shortly before Jack's departure at the end of LotL. For the [Awesome Bingo](http://plutokitty.livejournal.com/26475.html#cutid1) that foxysquidalso and I are doing. Prompt: "Cute Bum."

When Jack glances up from the very fine view passing by, he catches Martha looking, too.

She straightens away from the railing they're leaning against with a guilty start. Her mouth quirks into a wry smile. It's the first time Jack's seen her smile, really smile, since they left the Valiant.

"Lots of cute bums in Cardiff," he says with a wink, dangling further over the railing. The metal is hard against his elbows. He earns a near-laugh, Martha's lips twitching as she relaxes beside him again. "There's another one." He points out a nice, jean-clad bubble butt.

"Not bad."

Martha's clearly _trying_ to be light and cheerful, but she's not really succeeding. Jack sympathizes. He's definitely not ready to start dancing any time soon.

He sees her glancing back over her shoulder. Knows what she's looking for without looking himself.

"What about that one?" he says. "Fantastic curves."

He's got her attention again; she cranes her neck to follow his pointing finger. "Red skirt?" she asks.

"No," he says, "Khakis, beside her."

"Mmm, five out of ten."

"Oh, Martha Jones. You're a hard sell."

"Mister Tracksuit's all right." She makes a discreet gesture towards a thirtysomething in bright red.

"What? He's got hardly any bum at all."

She lifts her shoulders, drops them. "I like them--"

_Skinny_ hangs in the air, and with the word, the spectre of the man they're waiting for. Martha shakes her head.

"No, actually, I don't," she corrects herself. "He's just--" She shrugs again and half-heartedly laughs. "Maybe it's all that red microfibre. Very hot."

"Smokin'." Jack's laugh is sincere.

Martha's dark eyes follow an older gentleman in a suit.

"Pretty nice one. If a bit well-concealed," Jack remarks. "A seven, don't you think?" But he finds Martha's gaze has turned distant; she isn't seeing the man's seven-out-of-ten behind any more. A moment later she says,

"It's like--They haven't got a clue, have they? Just going about their business. Well. That's good. Isn't it?"

Jack wonders what to say, wonders if she's even talking to him. She scans the plaza, and he imagines what she must be picturing: a ruins, the water tower crumbled, Roald Dahl Plass turned into a pit. The Master took pleasure in showing Jack the state of his former--_present_\--home, seemed to think it was funny. Jack had done his best to witness it without reacting, clinging to what the Master had said about sending his team on a wild goose chase in the Himalayas. They were alive, somewhere, he'd told himself, fighting the good fight. Or even if they were dead--at least they hadn't gone out weakly, crushed under the rubble of the Plass.

"What about that one?"

Jack blinks, shaking himself out of his bad memories. He follows the direction of Martha's gaze to a very nice arse in corduroys. "Ooh, gorgeous," he says, approvingly. "Very discriminating taste, Miss Jones."

He realizes what he's said, and how he's said it, when she gives a little shiver. _Miss Jones_ was what the Master always called her. "Sorry," he offers, but she waves his apology away, trying to be brave and looking all too vulnerable. Her gaze drifts left, and then downwards; he imagines that she's fighting against the urge not to look back again, trying not to say, _Where is he?_, not to be needy or lonely or pathetic or sad. Or maybe he's just projecting. Could be. Probably is.

He wonders how long they've been waiting. It's a loaded question.

He could say he's been waiting more than a century. And Martha, how long for her? More time than she ever thought she'd wait for someone, he suspects.

A curvy, generous rear pursues two laughing kids. Jack raises his eyes, sees the weary face of its owner, a mother, or a nanny, smiling. A tired smile, maybe, but smiling. The children play tag around her. A man on a cellphone grins at them. Beyond, a hormonal pair of teenagers moon at each other as they hold hands crossing the plaza. Alive, he thinks, they're all so alive--happy and sad and busy and angry and in love, but alive and like Martha said, oblivious. Oblivious and so goddamn beautiful. He can understand why the Doctor loves them.

His eyes are drawn to the water tower and he thinks of Gwen's brilliant smile, Tosh's shy grin, Owen's leer, Ianto's smirk.

"That's a six, I think." Martha's voice draws him back again. She's looking at him, raising an eyebrow, mouth curved. When their eyes meet, she flashes her gaze downwards, at his own behind.

"Hey! What? No way. Perfect ten." He takes the excuse to check out her very nice curves. "Admit it, or I'm demoting you to a three."

But she doesn't rise to the bait, doesn't award him another smile. She shrugs, turning back towards the plaza. Her small hands wrap around the railing. A long silence stretches between them.

It's Martha that breaks it, at last. "If he asks you," she says softly, "Will you go with him?"

Jack opens his mouth to answer. He finds he doesn't know. Doesn't know when he stopped knowing. Before all this, he would've given anything to be with the Doctor. Some part of him still would. Would walk away from all he's built, from this mad, lovely world he's become guardian of, from the silly children he looks after, his lovely Gwen and Tosh and Owen and Ianto. But the rest of him--the rest of him is heavy with guilt for being up in the Valiant while they were struggling on the earth below. Is eager to see them again. Knows he can't just abandon them, for all that he once thought he could.

He of all people knows what it feels like, to be abandoned. Knows what it feels like to wait, never knowing if his waiting will come to anything.

He can't do that to someone else. He's done waiting, done making others wait.

"Right," Martha says, nodding, and even though he's voiced none of his thoughts, Jack knows she understands. And he understands why she asked what she asked.

Martha is done waiting, too.

She pushes away from the railing, turns towards where the TARDIS is parked. "Maybe we should go get him," Martha says. "I promised my mum--"

Then they see him, pinstripes and converse and skinny arse and all, crossing the plaza, coming towards them. Jack looks at Martha and sees what must be on his own face, a mix of joy and love, relief and old pain and sadness. Sees her settle back against the rail.

Martha will wait a little bit longer, but only a little bit.

And Jack will, too.


End file.
